


And the storm would come

by malcolm_fucking_tucker



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, bit of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 05:49:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4008235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malcolm_fucking_tucker/pseuds/malcolm_fucking_tucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after Last Christmas. Doctor gets his second chance, and this time he does not want to waste it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the storm would come

He really did not lie when he wondered about second chances. He never got them and he felt scared now that he did. What happened? Why was he given one? Was it a trap; a trick, or just something he deserved for so long? One thing was for sure; he would not let it go to waste. Not this time. The universe was throwing him a life-jacket and he would be a fool to reject it. She was here; she said yes, and he was happy. After so long. Happy.

 

_I want to take you somewhere special_ , he would say barely reaching inside of his TARDIS. Not wasting time. _New chance, new us_ -he decided. Because he was done with waiting. 

 

_Where to?_ , she would ask back with a soft smile; brushing the console rails of a welcoming ship she has truly missed. He would just smile; punching dials and watching her nightdress swing and silly slippers clap on the metal floor. _My choice this time_ , he would say; and she would nod.

 

_What was passion anyway?_ , he would wonder. A set of spiraling hormones that course through one’s body on an unending path that leads to all sorts of different scenarios? For him, most of the time it would lead nowhere. His hearts would reach out, ask to be nurtured, but they would be denied time and time again. Safer that way. Because he would reject it; nip the emotions in their roots and never speak of them again. But sometimes it would end in the way it was supposed to. Who was to say which path was the right one?

 

Because lust is a powerful monster that makes one’s eyes burn with hunger and desire; body twitch and ache and heart pump faster. _Maybe if was just hormones_ \- he would wonder watching her reach out for a book on an unfairly high shelf; absent-minded smile on her face. _Or was it deeper?_ It could not be that simple, surely. Hormones are just a byproduct of resounding caring and bottomless devotion for someone. Devotion to a feisty little someone that thrived being in control, but could never fully control him. _Such a combination would surely be spectacular_ \- he would conceive. 

 

Was it the 2000 year-gap between them that held him back? Or was it his unsureness of kindness. _Was he a good man?_ \- he would often ponder on that. But he could never know for sure. Because someone else’s morals may not necessarily be the right ones. And he had so many of them stacked in his brain.

 

And he has made bad decisions in his long tenure. You really could not expect to live that long a life without a shadow of doubt or regret. No. He was past that. The only thing he could be sure of was his devotion to continue trying to do good. It’s the best he could do. And she knew that. She showed him that not everything was his fault, and that everyone makes mistakes. Those who try hard, make more mistakes than those who do nothing. Simple logic. And he does try. And he does do. He was too hard on himself sometimes; he knew that. She was his light, so he followed her blindly.

 

He took her dancing. 1899. London ballroom at the famous house of his old friend Duke of Bedford. _He owes me a favor_ , he would say. _Helped him put a piano on the third floor of his manor._ And she loved it.

 

She wore a crème-colored period dress. Nothing too fancy; a bit of panache here and there; just something she found in the TARDIS wardrobe. And her hair held up in a curly-bun. And he watched her make final preparations for their long awaiting night-out. Adding finishing touches: silly shoes of course; unpractical as ever, and a necklace.

 

Then she would turn around and adjust his black frock; and brush over the spot where a bow-tie was due, but he would not wear it. He refused leaving his red-lining coat behind. _I’m cold,_ he would say, _and it’s a nice coat; best one I have,_ he would add under breath, and she would not press any further. 

 

They would walk, hand in hand, over the small patch of grass between the house and where he parked the TARDIS- behind the tree line of a nearby forest. _It was best that way_ , he would say, and she would nod. _Not very good for my shoes though_ , she would say softly and then raise her eyebrows at his reluctance to make fun of her shoes. 

 

_Will we dance?_ , she would ask; _If you want_ , he would reply leading her to their table. The music was coming from a chamber orchestra. Beautiful tunes one could not stand immune to. She wanted to dance.

 

They were not alone on the dance floor; but they felt alone. She would follow his lead; it was only proper to leave him in charge this time. He would raise his arm inviting her to join him. She could barely hold on to the one finger; _those were the protocols_ -he explained. The waltz was a rather slow one so she had no difficulty in catching up with his step. His other hand was hovering over her small-back; never touching as they danced, just hovering. Protocols again.

 

And they would sway together in motions of the tune. And she would occasionally glance at his feet admiring his lightness and grace. And his gaze would not leave her face for one second. And she would wander what-if.

 

Then her little feet would tire of all the dancing and her eyes would ask for a brake. And he would take her to the table without complaint. And they would just sit there; not talking. Just sipping champagne and getting lost in the music and the soft smell of a rain-storm brewing somewhere behind the huge windows. _Lucky we’re inside_ \- she would think watching the wind rustle a nearby oak-tree. It was standing proudly; guarding his honor for centuries or even longer. Then he would interrupt her gazing witch a clink of his glass on hers, and she would once again wonder.

 

They would soon after retire to their rooms in that strange and wonderful house. And he would bid her goodnight, and she would kiss his cheek; making him blush. _Not sure I deserved that_ , he would say. _Not sure you get to decide_ , she would answer.

 

And she would come into his room later that night. The storm would make her shiver all alone in her room. _Is it OK if I stay?_ , she would ask. He would nod, returning to gaze somewhere outside his window. The rain was getting stronger, and the wind was howling now, desperately searching for a way into the house.

 

_I really enjoyed dancing,_ she would admit; _maybe we could repeat it someday. Maybe today,_ he would answer turning and approaching her slowly; then stopping inches from her body. A distant thunder would sound over his shoulders. And he would take her hand once more, and with a soft humming of the tune he would once again take her dancing in the middle of his room. 

 

The floor would creek under their footsteps, even though he had taken his shoes off. He would again linger with his hand over her back; millimeters from her night-dress. And he would be careful not to step on it; because it was rather long, and she was in her slippers. And then she would place her head on his chest and sigh. And he would retort something about her tendencies of non-compliance with specified protocols of the dance which she would ignore; and just continue to listen to his hearts.

 

_Does it bother you?_ , she would ask. _Not in the slightest,_ he would assure her. And the storm would brew heavier. The thunder approaching would scare her for a moment and she would tighten her arm on his neck. And he would slowly let his hand graze her back; and she would gasp lifting her head.

 

He would just smile down on her questioning eyes. _Not really expecting that?_ , his eyes would say. _Not complaining_ , hers would yell back. And he would then bend slightly to brush his lips on hers, and she would hold her breath; because she would be caught in a rush of flooding emotions at that point; also the lightning decided that was the moment to release a cracking light effect that made its way inside their little room. And she would wonder, and count: _one, two, three, four, five, six, seven_ \- and the thunder would echo somewhere in the distance. _Long way away_ \- she would perceive.

 

And then he would do the motion again, only this time it would be different; more decided, more real. And she would brush her hand through his hair, closing her eyes; and he would clench on her night-dress. And his other hand would not waste time but scramble to her head to release her hair; and he would deepen the kiss. And then he would draw her body against his and she would gasp. Not much to say on the state of their hearts at this point. Except that they were beating for each other.

 

And he would guide her backwards to the bed; her little dress catching in her slippers and then her legs touching the side of his bed. He would stop then, asking permission. And she would lie down on the bed and under the sheets, silently inviting him to finish what he started.

 

And another lightning would shine somewhere outside and light the little room. And they would count together under the sheets. _One, two, three, four_ \- and the sound would reach them. And the candle would reveal her pinned arms above her head. And she would let out a moan.

 

And the candle would flicker on the night-stand; dripping slowly and casting shy light on the bed. And the rain-drops would thud unevenly on the window frame outside, and the wind would force a rush of rain over the small window, and he would make a growl beneath the sheets.

 

And the tree would whistle beneath the window sensing its fate, as the thunder prepared to unleash its biggest strike; but the two bodies could not care less as they grew warmer each second.

 

And then it would shine bright, as it were suddenly day-time outside and they would try to count but would not go past _one_ and the cracking-deafening sound would rip the night’s sky and the proud oak-tree apart. And they would scream with it; together.

 

And as the rain would grow silent, and the wind mild it’s howling; the tree would just stand there, split in half and tindering in the middle; without a sound.

 

And the candle would die out casting its dying light onto the bed to reveal tangled legs outside the covers of the sheets. And the only sound interrupting the drumming of the rain-drops and the slow tindering of the tree outside in that cold night, would be a soft giggle coming from under those sheets.


End file.
